Something Past Survival
by ImUpToNoGood
Summary: After the war, reconciliation between enemies is necessary to create a better future, one that is only possible by embracing the past. Begins during the final chapters of Deathly Hallows, ignores the epilogue. Explores wizarding culture, leads into 8th year for some of our favorite people. Will be long, and will eventually be Harry/Draco.
1. Chapter 1: The Battle

Something Past Survival Part I – The Battle Chapter 1: In the Room of Requirement – Draco

_May 1, 1998, shortly before midnight_

The Dark Lord was winning. There was no way Potter and his band of incompetents could recover from this massacre. Which meant, before the final victory, Draco had to find a way back into the Dark Lord's good graces, such as they were. Draco had failed too many times. He had failed to kill Dumbledore, had not identified Potter and the Mudblood when they were brought to Malfoy Manor—captured by someone _other_ than the Malfoys—and then the Malfoys had failed to keep Potter imprisoned. Draco had not been putting his will and attention into the Dark Lord's assignments, and it showed, but he could not fail this time. The only thing he could think of that would mitigate the wrath the Malfoy family had earned was to deliver Potter to the Dark Lord personally. So he, Crabbe and Goyle hid in the corridors, disillusioned, looking for Potter.

None of it was as he expected. None of it was glorious, and the Dark Lord's whim decided who could lord over the others, instead of inherent superiority. It was not based on skill or bloodlines or breeding. Draco despised his aunt's lack of self-control, Pettigrew's cringing, and the Dark Lord's rants. His father had taught him better than that; he knew it was necessary to keep a cool head, to show that he had control of himself and could control others—that he was superior.

Draco had become good at presenting a calm, cool exterior, showing to the world that he was in control. Except with Potter. He hated that about Potter. How is it that the dratted "Boy Who Lived" always broke through Draco's mask, causing Draco to lash out with no more control than a hippogriff? He was pure-blood, in control, destined to be on the winning side.

All of them—all of the Dark Lord's chosen—had bowed before him, had kissed the hem of his robe, had done his bidding. He was going to create a world for them based on the values Draco believed in: that pure-bloods were better than others. That pure-blood wizards needed to keep themselves apart from the mudbloods and half-bloods, to hold to their history and heritage and traditions. Draco was proud of those traditions. He was proud to be a Malfoy.

He was starting to question whether the Dark Lord would value those traditions. He had been shocked this past year to discover that the Dark Lord was a half-blood. How could he value the pure-blood traditions if he was not one himself? But, for good or ill, the Dark Lord was winning. And the Malfoys had to find their way back to the winning side.

It was necessary to be the winner.

Suddenly, as if summoned by Draco's thoughts, there he was: Potter, with Weasel and the Mudblood. Right near the entrance to the Room of Hidden Things. They were intent on something, not noticing as Draco grabbed the door before it closed. He waited until they got inside a bit, and then peered inside. He knew this room. It was the room where he had fixed the vanishing cabinet that had allowed him to let in the Death Eaters at the end of last year, in the failed attempt to take over Hogwarts. As soon as the trio had passed the first shelving stuffed with forgotten keepsakes, Draco, Crabbe and Goyle followed them in.

Draco gestured for Crabbe and Goyle to remain silent, and, surprisingly, they did. They had both been acting rebellious, of late, as the Malfoy star waned. That would soon be righted. But for now, he wanted to know what Potter was up to. There was a reason Potter had returned to Hogwarts, after running away and hiding for weeks on end, and as much as Draco would have liked to think it was just to be in charge of the battle, garnering attention and glory, Draco was no longer sure that was who Harry Potter was.

"_Accio_ diadem," Granger said. Draco looked to see if anything came flying toward her. Nothing did. He was not surprised; this room had its own ideas. Over the past months he had encountered the room's unique sensibilities, sometimes to his benefit, and occasionally preventing him from progressing on his project. That one had succeeded. Not that the Dark Lord had recognized him for it, not after he had failed with Dumbledore.

"Let's split up." Potter said. "Look for a stone bust of an old man wearing a wig and a tiara. It's standing on a cupboard and it's definitely somewhere around here."

What would Potter and his flunkies be doing searching for a bloody tiara, when the Dark Lord was about to invade Hogwarts?

He followed the sound of Potter's voice, always keeping one of the towering shelvings of detritus between them. When Potter got far enough away from his friends, Draco gestured Crabbe and Goyle forward. Potter was scanning the walls of items, muttering to himself. Draco followed him, quietly, stepping carefully around the junk on the floor, keeping just enough distance. Potter reached out toward something. Now that Draco knew what Potter was after, he stepped forward, Crabbe and Goyle stepped in front of him, protecting. At least they still had those habits ingrained. "Hold it, Potter."

Potter spun, wand out. Draco felt a surge of hate.

"That's my wand you're holding."

Draco pointed his wand, his mother's wand, at Potter.

"Not anymore!" Potter panted, grasping it still tighter. "Winners keepers, Malfoy." Draco raised an eyebrow at the schoolyard taunt. Potter always seemed to live as if he believed those childish maxims. No wonder the Dark Lord was winning.

"Who's lent you theirs?" Potter said.

"My mother," Draco admitted, and as expected, Potter laughed. Idiot. It took a skilled wizard to use another's wand successfully. He had worked with it for weeks, and had mastered the wand. Mostly. He had hated being so out of control of his magic.

"So, how come you three aren't with Voldemort?" Potter asked, saying the name in that way of his, as if the Dark Lord were something distasteful.

"We're gonna be rewarded," Crabbe said. Draco could have kicked him, but he dare not take his attention off of Potter. "We've decided to bring you to Him." Crabbe continued. Why did minions always feel it necessary to discuss their plans with the enemy?

"Good plan," Potter mocked, and Draco seethed.

"So, how did you get in here?" Potter asked. As if Potter knew better about this room than he did.

"I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year. _I_ know how to get in."

"We was hiding in the corridor outside," Goyle added, uselessly. "We can do Diss-lusion charms now." Way to go, Goyle, reveal your strengths, such as they are, to the enemy, Draco sneered to himself as Goyle continued. "And then, you turned up, right in front of us, and said you were looking for a die-dum. What's a die-dum?" Goyle's face had an appalling look of confusion on it. Draco shuddered. Idiot.

"Harry." The Weasel's voice came from across one of the towering rows of bric-a-brac. "Are you talking to someone?" What a bloody genius.

Crabbe spun, pointed his wand at the 50-foot mountain of random things between them and the Weasel, and shouted "_Descendo_." The top of the towering pile of books, robes, broomsticks, treasures from decades of students and not a few teachers, tottered, then started to tumble, thankfully away from them, into the aisle where the Weasel stood.

Potter shouted the Weasel's name, and Granger screamed from a distance. Potter raised _his_ wand and shouted, "Finite!" The wall stabilized.

Crabbe lifted his wand to repeat the spell, but Draco grabbed his arm, and pushed it back down. "No!" Draco said. "If you wreck the room, you might bury this diadem thing."

"What's that matter?" asked Crabbe. "It's Potter the Dark Lord wants. Who cares about the die-dum?"

Draco spoke in his most patient voice, his "I am surrounded by idiots" voice. "Potter came in here to get it. So that must mean— "Draco prompted.

"Must mean? Who cares what you think?" Crabbe turned on Draco. "I don't take your orders no more, Draco. You and your dad are finished!" That was it. Draco ignored the feeling of loss, fighting to hide the hurt those words caused him. He kept his face cold, superior. That was why they had to deliver Potter to the Dark Lord. If even Crabbe, who had stood by him since they were children, was turning against him, distaining him, Draco needed to do something drastic to regain position. He _needed_ to do this_._

"Harry! What's going on?" Weasley's voice came across the tower. Unburied. Pity, that.

"_Harry?_" mimicked Crabbe. Harry lunged for the tiara on the bust of an old wizard. Crabbe brought up his wand. "Potter! _Crucio!"_ The curse missed Potter, but hit the bust, and the bust, wig, and tiara all went flying. The tiara dropped out of sight.

"Stop!" Draco cried, hoping the tiara was not lost amidst the detritus, annoyed that Crabbe risked both Potter and the tiara. "The Dark Lord wants him alive!"

"So? I'm not killing him, am I?" Crabbe yelled. "But if I can, I will. The Dark Lord wants him dead, anyway. What's the diff?" Crabbe tugged his arm away from Draco's restraining hand. Draco would now have to fight Crabbe and Goyle to bring Potter to the Dark Lord. Draco would not let _anyone_ get in the way of his goal.

A red stunning spell burst from behind Potter, and Draco pulled Crabbe out of the way. "It's that Mudblood! _Avada Kedavra_!" Crabbe aimed at Granger. Granger ducked, and the curse passed her harmlessly. Potter fired a stunning spell back at Crabbe, face contorted with fury. Crabbe ducked, knocking the wand out of Draco's hand. The wand rolled out of sight. Draco felt its absence as curse after curse flew between Potter, the Weasel and Granger, and Crabbe and Goyle.

"Don't kill him! Don't kill him!" Draco yelled at Crabbe and Goyle." Those idiots were ruining it; they were going to take this away from Draco. He scanned the floor for his wand. If he had it in hand, he would have stunned them all, Crabbe and Goyle included.

Crabbe and Goyle paused for a second, and Potter's "_Expelliarmus_" whipped Goyle's wand away into the debris around them. Goyle leapt toward where it went, tripping over some forgotten treasure. A second stunning spell came from Granger's wand, and Draco ducked out of the way, Weasel missed Crabbe with a body bind, and Crabbe retorted with an AK, missing the Weasel. Those two needed to learn to take the moment to aim, or they'd never succeed in duelling.

Draco ducked behind a wardrobe, feeling the loss of his wand more strongly than ever. Granger stormed toward them, stunning Goyle, who collapsed on top of a pile of books.

Potter ignored Draco and Crabbe, searching a pile of junk. "It's somewhere here! He glanced to Granger. "Look for it, while I go help Ron." But Granger screamed, and Weasley and Crabbe were running toward them full tilt. Fire bloomed behind them. What had that idiot done?

"Like it hot, scum?" Crabbe yelled at Potter, as if he did not realize the fire was behind him as well. The walls of junk were catching fire, even stone, even metal. Draco recognized the curse with horror. Who in their right mind would cast Fiendfyre in a room full of junk, _while they were still inside?_

Potter shouted "_Aguamenti_," as if that could stop Fiendfyre. The jet of water billowed into steam.

Draco grabbed Goyle, his stunned body heavy and awkward, but he shouldered him and ran. Crabbe passed them, not carrying anyone, and the two trios ran toward where Draco hoped he remembered the door to be, or at least away from the fire.

The fire blossomed into the fiends from which it got its name, serpents and chimeras, dragons and all sorts of beasts. They rose and fell, jaws of flame snapping at their heels. Potter and his friends had disappeared, but at this point, Draco didn't care, scanning the walls, trying to peer through the aisles between the walls of burning junk, trying to find the grey square on the wall that was the door out of here.

The fire encircled them, and Draco adjusted Goyle on his shoulder, climbed an uncertain pile of debris, up and away from the flames at their feet. The air scorched his lungs; the fire blistered the skin of his legs under his robes. He pulled them up and gathered Goyle into his lap. He searched for a path out of there, a path not already engulfed by flames searing the air. He gulped air, feeling his lungs burn with the heat. The fire was all around him. He would not be the winner here. The fire came closer, burning, and Draco screamed.

Draco Malfoy was going to die.

But above him, he saw movement, someone on a broom, skin blackened with soot, except for twin circles around his eyes. Potter. What was Potter doing? Was he so intent on that tiara that he would fly into this inferno? But Potter fastened his gaze on Draco, and turned his broom toward him. He flew close, hand outstretched, and Draco, unbelieving, raised a hand for his enemy to grasp. The slick sweat on his hand caused Potters grip to slide away, and Draco knew Potter could not lift both his and Goyle's weight. But Draco could not make himself let go of Goyle's stupefied form.

Another broomstick flew into view. It was Weasley and Granger, riding double on the broom. Somehow, Weasley's fiery hair did not succumb to the soot that covered the rest of them, it still shone out to rival the fire around them.

"If we die for them," Weasley shouted, "I'll kill you, Harry." But they two of them flew toward Draco and Goyle, and between them grabbed Goyle and hoisted them onto the broomstick, then lurched drunkenly toward the door.

Draco wiped his hands on his robe, ignoring the pain of blisters breaking open, and reached once again upward, scarcely daring to hope that Potter would come back. But he did, grasping Draco's arm and helping him climb behind him on the broom. Draco fastened his arms instinctively around Potters waist, holding tighter than he ever had to anything. Why had Potter come back? Draco would not have, had the roles been reversed. Draco needed Potter, needed the Dark Lord's reward, but Potter did not need Draco Malfoy. Why had Potter come back for the ones who would turn him over to his enemy to be killed? Draco shuddered, held tighter still to the black haired body in front of him.

He saw the door, a grey rectangle in the wall. "The door, get to the door," Draco pleaded. Potter aimed for it. But incredibly, Potter veered away.

"What are you doing, what are you doing? The door's that way!" Panic made Draco's voice pitch high in an undignified scream, but for once, he did not care. But Potter flew toward a piece of jewellery flung high into the air by the fire monsters, Potter reached out toward the cursed diadem for which he had come into the room, and with the seeker skills that had always outstripped Draco's by just _that_ much, reached out and caught the diadem away from the open jaws of a fiery serpent, and then turned to aim back toward the now open door.

They flew out of the door, too fast to stop before crashing into the wall opposite the door in the corridor. The broom splintered, dropping both Draco and Potter onto the floor.

Draco tried to breathe in the fresh air, tried to ease the burning in his lungs, but his attempt was interrupted by a burst of coughing. The others were also coughing and panting. Everything hurt.

He grabbed something to help him sit up, only realizing afterward that it was Potter's hand. It felt warm. Draco dropped it suddenly, looking around. The Gryffindor Trio surrounded him, and Goyle lay to the side, unconscious.

"Crabbe?" It was all he could choke out, already knowing the answer "Crabbe?"

"He's dead." Weasley spat, as if it were a victory.

Draco subsided into silence, shaken. He had known Crabbe since he could remember, since they were children. Vince and Greg had always been there, brought by their parents to Malfoy Manor for social events and later, meetings with the Dark Lord. Draco shuddered. It was all falling apart.

He was too stunned to feel grief, too shaken to feel much of anything.

A loud bang shook the walls and floor of the corridor. The ghostly shapes of the headless hunt charged through, screaming. Draco started at the sound, the movement, and became dimly aware of the din of the battle surrounding them. Screams, yells, the buzz and whine and explosions of spells hitting and missing. It was happening, right now, it was happening.

Draco slumped. He had no wand, no way to redeem himself in anyone's eyes. He saw the same defeat in Goyle's face, but avoided his gaze. Goyle was also wandless. Neither of them could make a difference now. It was over.

He was vaguely aware of the Trio making plans, checking in with each other, babbling nonsense, but he could not bring himself to care. The thing Potter had gone back for, the diadem, dangling from Potter's wrist, smouldered into a dark flame and broke apart. Served him right, Draco thought out of habit. He tried to make himself focus on what they were saying. The Mudblood was prattling on about Fiendfyre, and Weasley took a pot-shot at Crabbe for casting it, but Draco could not gather the energy to respond.

The corridor suddenly became crowded, with Death Eaters and Weasleys casting curses and hexes at each other. Draco felt decidedly unsafe. With the Death Eaters near, it was not safe to be anywhere near Potter. A hole erupted in the side of the castle, proving Draco's point. He watched as giant spiders crawled in through the hole. Numbly crawling over to where Goyle lay, Draco grabbed him, lifted him over his shoulder with a grunt that his father would have disapproved of. Malfoys do not grunt. Half carrying, half dragging his friend, Malfoy left the hole, the spiders, the Trio, the Weasleys, the fight.

But he could not escape it. Death Eaters, students and teachers were on all sides, furniture galloped around, blocking his way like a herd of sheep. Goyle was too heavy. Draco could not carry him and escape, so he tucked his unconscious friend in an unused room, hoping that the battle would not intrude there. He needed to get out of there. He made his way to the entrance hall, dodging curses, ducking spells, climbing the stairs toward escape. Just when he believed he would make it, he found himself jerked backward by his robes, lifted into the air like a child. The man who had grabbed him wore the mask of a Death Eater and a sneer.

I'm Draco Malfoy!" He pleaded. I'm Draco! I'm on your side!"

"Draco Malfoy. How lovely."

Draco's eyes widened as he recognised the voice. The Death Eater was not from the Inner Circle, and Draco did not remember his name, but he did remember the man screaming and pleading as Lucius cast _Cruciatus_. He could not remember what the man had done to warrant the Dark Lord's displeasure… Draco knew too well how easily one might garner such treatment. A wrong word or glance. A failed mission.

The Death Eater firmed his grip on Draco's robes with one hand, and raised his wand to Draco's neck with the other. "You are no longer protected." The man's deep voice snarled. Draco turned cold.

Suddenly, the red light of a stunning spell came from nowhere, and the Death Eater collapsed. Draco fell on top of the Death Eater, turning to look this way and that, his face glowing with relief, looking for the one who had saved him. Just as suddenly, a fist impacted with his face, and the Weasel's voice grated, "That's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you two faced bastard!"

Draco collapsed onto the stunned Death Eater, his lip split and leaking blood, his head aching from smoke, from the noise, from all that was going on, from Weasley's fist. He crawled off the Death Eater, and scuttled away, out the main entrance door and down the stairs leading away from the castle, out into the grounds. He darted toward Hogsmeade, away from the battle.

AN:

Thanks for reading! I love reviews - they help me keep writing!

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. The first chapter or two has some direct quotes from Chapters 31 through 36 of book seven peppered throughout, but we get Draco's reaction to the events we have already seen from Harry's. After the final battle, we'll be branching off. 


	2. Chapter 2: Running

**AN:** Thank you for reading, and especially tho those who reviewed!

* * *

**Chapter 2: Running – Draco**

_May 2, 1998_

Draco sat, knees up, hidden by bushes. If he had his wand, he would have cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, but the bushes would have to do. Outside of his hiding place, the battle continued, loud with screams and shouts, with explosions, with the crunch of rock on rock as the castle fell apart.

He could see movement in the distance, flashes of light. His parents were out there somewhere. Maybe. His godfather. His Slytherin friends… well, comrades. And here he was, with no wand, no hope, no future. He had cast his bet and lost. Draco put his head on his knees.

A closer sound drew his attention. He ducked, but curiosity got the better of him. It was Potter, Weasel and the Mudblood. Again. They were everywhere. Weren't they supposed to be fighting in the battle? Some hero: the battle raged behind them, and they were running away. Bloody Perfect Potter, leaving the battle.

Draco did not quite believe it. Gryffindors didn't run away. They didn't even strategically retreat. They charged in, as if the world were offered to them on a platter, as if the only outcome could be the one they sought. So maybe the Scarhead was not running away. Maybe he was running toward something.

Draco suddenly needed to find out what that was.

He waited until they passed, then crept after them. Fortunately, they were intent on where they were going, not even checking around them. He heard Potter shout "The Whomping Willow," and the three pelted toward it. Draco crept behind them, running from one bit of fallen castle to another, from bush to tree. Potter moved purposefully, and Draco did not try to keep up so much as he tried to keep the trio in sight.

There were open stretches between him and the willow, where Potter was headed. Draco followed his progress. He was almost beyond caring if he was seen, but he had to find out what Potter was up to. He could not quite explain why, not even to himself. His own life did not to matter much anymore, except to himself. He could have no effect on the battle around him. His wand was out of reach; his parents were not powerful enough to protect him at present. The Malfoy aura he had leveraged for so many years, which he could have used to gain followers or to create an influence, was tarnished.

"_No longer protected."_ The Death Eater's words echoed in his mind. He was not significant here. He hated that. But in times like these, you found out what _was_ significant; you gathered knowledge, tracked the action. And you used what you learned.

Potter was significant. It was likely that the Dark Lord would kill him, but Draco could see Potter had a plan, he moved forward with a purpose, and did not hesitate. Draco wanted to know what it was that Potter meant to do.

The Whomping Willow started thrashing as the trio came nearer, and Draco wondered what Potter thought he was doing. Granger yelled something about being wizards, and with a swish and flick of her wand, there was a flash of motion and the tree became still. Even with all the battle noise in the background, it suddenly seemed silent. Draco realized that the Whomping Willow had always created its own wind, and now it was still. The sounds of the battle suddenly seemed sharper, and somehow both closer and more distant, as if the scale had expanded.

How had Granger done that? How had she _known_ to do that? Draco pushed down the admiration before he could feel it. It was just more evidence she was a know-it-all Mudblood.

He watched from the cover of a large, flat-topped piece of granite jutting from the ground, where he and Pansy had sat in his second year, practicing banishing spells by flicking wads of moistened parchment back and forth to each other. They had allotted points if the wads hit instead being caught by the spell from the other's wand. Draco tried to remember the last time he had felt so carefree. It had been a long time: at least two years. Not since Potter put his father in Azkaban at the end of fifth year. Draco's eyes narrowed as he watched them.

Potter, Weasel and the Mudblood threaded their way through the motionless, but still sharp, twigs of the Willow, and somehow _climbed inside_. He waited for them to re-emerge. Minutes went by. A crash and shriek from the battle made Draco jump, but still he waited.

What if it was it a portal of some sort? Had he just lost them, waiting like an idiot? Draco could not think of any spell other than a portkey or a floo to transport people. There had been no crack of apparition. He supposed the willow could have had a portkey tucked at its base, but that seemed unnecessarily complex. Why hide a portkey when you could just require a spell or phrase or motion to trigger one, and carry it, instead? Finally, he crept closer, noticing a small, darker hollow at the base of the tree, between the ridges of two large roots. He stared cautiously, but he needed to learn what they were up to. He needed knowledge. He started to creep forward again.

A sound sent him scuttling back behind the boulder: the cold, dangerously familiar sound of the Dark Lord's voice. "You have fought valiantly." Draco knew the Dark Lord could not possibly be speaking to him. It did not quite sound like a _Sonorus_ Charm, it was too – large, somehow, as it echoed across the fields. Nevertheless, it felt personal, as if the Dark Lord were speaking directly to him. "Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery." And how to punish failure.

Draco shivered in the sun as the voice continued. This was the voice that had called for his Death Eaters to punish Draco, his mother, his father. This voice had required him to kill Dumbledore, knowing the pain of failure was death for his mother, maybe even his father. This was the voice of the one they had to please, that rewarded victory with power and failure with torture and death.

"You have sustained heavy losses," the Dark Lord's voice echoed. It sounded like he was speaking from several directions at once. "If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one." Draco felt the cold granite against his back. A sharp edge poked unpleasantly into his shoulder-blade. At one point, Draco would have listened to the Dark Lord's display of power with unholy glee, knowing he and this powerful force were on the same side, the winning side. Knowing that Potter would die. _You are no longer protected. _At any moment, the Dark Lord could have a Malfoy killed, or do it himself.

"I do not wish this to happen," the voice echoed. Draco started, but then realized that the Dark Lord was continuing his speech, not answering Draco's thoughts. "Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste." Yes, that is why the Malfoys fought alongside him. Every drop of pure blood is precious. Blood traitors like the Weasleys didn't see this, they didn't see that the Blood and traditions of magical families was something to protect.

"Lord Voldemort is merciful." Draco had seen that mercy. Draco had writhed under the merciful Cruciatus curse, and seen his mother and father do the same. Failure was always punished.

"I command my armies to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured."

"I speak now to Harry Potter." The voice continued. Draco glanced back to the Whomping Willow. Still no sign of Potter. What were they doing in the tree? "You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every man, woman and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

Did the Dark Lord really expect Potter to just give himself up? Potter was annoying, and part of that was that he did not give up. Even when it made sense to do so. That idiot meddled everywhere, and threatening friends did not stop him. People could die all around him, and Potter would just continue right on. Sure, he whinged about the people who had died. As if Perfect Potter was the only person to have lost friends or family. But he would continue to fight, not considering the risk to others until it was too late to save them. After seven years, Draco knew how Potter was.

Speak of the git, and he shows up. The Gryffindor Trio crawled out of the tree. They were covered in dirt, which they tried unsuccessfully to dust off with their hands. Maybe there was a tunnel or a cave, then. The three Gryffindors ran back to the Castle, but Draco hesitated. He wanted to see where they had been, what they had been doing. The Willow was still not moving, so Draco edged closer.

When he got to the perimeter of the branches, he paused. The Willow still held still. A slight breeze jostled some of the upper branches, and a shower of loose twigs fell through the branches at him, but most were caught by upper branches before reaching the ground. Even though it was not banging its branches around, it still did not seem to want him there. Draco took a deep breath, and made his way through the twisted branches, toward the indentation from which Potter and the others had emerged.

It was an opening. Draco leaned forward to see inside, wishing again for his wand. A quick _Lumos_ would be quite useful. But if he had his wand, he wouldn't be here, tracking after Harry bloody Potter; he'd be fighting. Or he'd have turned Potter over and would be basking in the rewards the Dark Lord offered, instead of hiding from his punishments. No, not hiding, he reminded himself. Scouting.

He rested his hand on a protruding root to support himself as he leaned further, dislodging a twig that was sticking out of a knot at its base, when suddenly the Willow started to move again. It started slow, as if winding up, readying for a good throw like a chaser might ready to throw the Quaffle. Draco did not fancy being a Quaffle. A large branch pounded into the ground right next to him, and he quickly rolled over the root into the opening, managing to just miss another attempt of the tree to pound him into a bloody pulp.

Retreating a bit more into the gap, he looked out to see the tree writhing and pounding; each thump of a branch against the earth caused the ground to shake and dirt to fall into his hair from the ceiling above him. This was not good. Potter had come back out the same way he had gone in. Draco hoped that was not because it was the only way out: he didn't see how he was going to get past these branches now. He was acting like a bloody Gryffindork, going in without making the escape route certain.

Draco looked up. The ceiling looked furry; root tendrils hung down from the soil above him, poking through the wooden slats that had once formed the top of the passage, supported by wooden beams. Draco, eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, could see he was in a tunnel, stretching down under the base of the tree. The wooden supports arched over it every few feet.

Somewhere along this tunnel, or at the other end, was the reason Potter had come in here.

Draco started forward, forced to drop to his hands and knees after a few feet. The tunnel constricted, and he wriggled through the narrowest part. The tunnel was longer than he expected. Potter must not have spent much time at the end of it, if it took this long to traverse.

The tunnel got dark almost immediately, and Draco wished again for his wand. Another thing to hate Potter for. "_Lumos."_ Nothing happened. Of course not. The spell was tied to the wand even more than most, and Draco had never been good at wandless magic. He felt a clump of dirt fell onto his hair, and he found himself wondering why he was doing this. Potter had left. He should be following Potter, not investigating places the bloody Boy Who Lived had passed on his way. But whatever was at the end of the tunnel must have been important. Potter had that stupid Gryffindor bravery thing, and as much as Draco hated to admit it, Potter was not a coward. Draco would have expected the bloody Boy Who Lived to be in the midst of the fighting, dying gloriously so everyone could put up a fucking shrine to him. Instead he had left the battle, he knew how to get past the willow, and had crawled through this dirty, narrow, dark tunnel. Thus, it was not something that Potter did on a whim. Draco ignored the fact that he was crawling through the same tunnel, and had no idea why. Draco brushed the dirt off his head, combing his fingers through his hair, managing to get most of the dirt out, but grinding the rest more thoroughly in. He grimaced.

He started forward again, bumping his head against a particularly low beam in the earth above him. He rubbed his hair again, aware that it was becoming grimy, and the dampness and pain said he may have cut his head against the beam. Just great. How long was this stupid tunnel anyway? He thought he saw something ahead, lighter than the dark that surrounded him. He crawled more quickly, and the ceiling of the tunnel started to retreat from above his head, until it was high enough that he could stand.

There was an opening, camouflaged in the back of a shallow closet, and a large crate stood in front of the opening, hiding it and him. Draco stood for a moment and peered through the opening between the wall and the crate. It was a room in a house. It was filthy, with debris littering the floor. It seemed to be empty. What was Potter doing here? Was there some secret stash of something? Potter did seem to be collecting things: that diadem—Draco shoved the memory aside, flames, the certainty he was going to die, Potter's hand lifting him up onto the broom, his terror as he grabbed Potter and held on. Draco did not think he could look Potter in the eye anytime soon.

He edged past the partially open door, nearly tripping over a pile of black cloth. His eyes skittered over the mound. Not a pile, a person. _Merlin_. The familiar profile of his godfather shocked him, and Draco dropped to his hands and knees, feeling the older man's face. _Severus._ The face was cold, and there was blood, so much blood.

Was this what Potter had come here for? Had Potter done this? Draco started to feel a burning of hate stronger than any he had felt before, and he grabbed his teacher and held him close. Severus' head dropped down over Draco's shoulder, and he noticed what he had missed the first time. Bite marks. Draco recognized them. He had seen such marks before. Nagini. The Dark Lord had given more than one person to her, had displayed the damage she could create, made sure his Death Eaters understood yet another way he could punish those who disobeyed.

Nagini had killed Severus Snape. The hate he had been feeling suddenly had a new target. Voldemort had killed his godfather. He had tortured his parents, sent Draco on a mission he could never have completed, and now killed Severus Snape.

On those occasions that Draco's father had been cold and demanding, Severus had given quiet support. Draco had known him since he was a child, and knew how to read the dry humour behind the impassive face, to interpret the quirk of the lips. He had learned how to read his godfather's emotions, when to face his anger, and when to run. He knew when he could smile at his wry comments, and how to see the pride that came through only when he had done something right. In the Potions classroom, Severus favoured him, but Draco knew that he was graded fairly at the end, based on his actual accomplishments. His father had to see the favour, had to hear the reports from the other Slytherins' parents, but Draco recognised when his godfather was proud, when he honoured Draco's accomplishments.

Voldemort had killed him. He had left him behind, like a pile of rags. Snape had done everything that Voldemort asked, risking his displeasure only to protect Draco. Draco knew that now, having seen the results of his failure on himself, on his parents, and on Snape himself. Draco ran his hand near down Snape's neck, finding the point just under the jaw, despairing and hoping at the same time. His godfather could not be dead. He was too mean to die. He was Severus Snape and Snape was eternal.

The skin was cool, the body limp, but…

He felt something.

A pulse of blood, against Draco's fingers. Slow, weak.

And another.

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**AN: **Thanks for reading! I love reviews - they help me keep writing!

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. This chapter has some direct quotes from Chapters 31 through 36 of book seven peppered throughout, but we get Draco's reaction to the events we have already seen from Harry's. After the final battle, we'll be branching off.


	3. Chapter 3: A Purpose

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Those of you who reviewed... You're the BEST!_

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_**Chapter 3: A Purpose – Draco**_

_May 2, 1998_

Draco's gaze darted around the room. He could see nothing useful in the debris. Feeling like an intruder, he searched his godfather's pockets for something—anything—that would help. His godfather was a potions master, by Merlin's dirty socks, surely he carried something! There was a bottle, but it was just for pain. He needed antivenin, he needed blood replenisher, he needed…

He needed to stopper death. Draco had learnt what his godfather meant, in that first amazing Potions class all those years ago. Snape had showed him the page in a potions book that detailed a potion that was almost impossible to make. He was trying to make a point at the time, Draco remembered.

He had been frustrated with Draco for spending time in class distracting Potter, instead of learning the potion himself. He had wanted to instil in Draco his own love of potions. He wanted Draco to know how many there were, and all that could be done with them. By then, Draco had stopped believing in Snape's first-day speech, had challenged the older man to prove what potions could do.

Snape had showed him the book in which it was described, an old, leather-bound book with yellowed pages, and on one page was the potion, complete with ingredients and instructions.

Had his godfather ever made the potion? It was not much of a chance, but it was the only one he could think of.

Crawling through the tunnel again would take too much time. Draco dashed from the room, looking for a door to the outside. There were doors and windows, but they were all boarded up. Draco suddenly realized where he was. This was the Shrieking Shack! But he could not think about that now, or the rumour that it was haunted. How would he carry Severus back to the dungeons, let alone with no one seeing? He could not drag Snape through the tunnel. He could Apparate if he had a wand. He could not Apparate into the castle, but he could get to the clearing where he and Snape had met before going to Death Eater meetings. The thought of the meetings, of Snape serving the Dark Lord, faithfully, year after year, made Draco furious. This was how his godfather had been repaid.

He needed to get back to the castle. He needed a wand.

And there it was.

Snape's wand.

Wonderingly, Draco picked it up. He had used his mother's wand since spring, after Potter had taken his. It had never felt quite right, but this, holding his godfather's wand, felt… wrong. He felt like he had intruded into his parents' bedroom. Like he was holding something private, something personal. "_Lumos."_ The tip of the wand flickered, as uncertain as his voice. Draco took a deep, steadying breath. _"Lumos."_

A brighter flare came out of the tip of the wand. It felt odd, like he was casting a spell through Severus himself, like he was using Snape's body as a wand. Draco shivered. He cast a lightening charm on the older man, and then crouched down and pulled one of Snape's arms over his shoulder, turning to hoist him onto his back. Leaning forward, Draco took a step to make sure he had a firm grip. Even lightened, it was awkward. Severus was significantly taller, and his knees bumped into Draco's calves, his body dangling down Draco's back. It was undignified, but Snape would never know. Now for the challenge: could he Apparate with Severus' wand? Did he have any choice?

He had learned to Apparate years before he had been allowed to take the stupid ministry classes. His father had insisted. He had not been allowed to do it where anyone could see, but his father had told him that he needed to be able to escape from difficult situations. This, however... Apparating with someone else's wand, carrying that person, was dangerous. Perhaps…

He held Severus' hand in his wand hand, arranging it so Severus' fingers touched the wand as well. It felt, less invasive. As if Severus were sharing, instead of him intruding in the other man's absence. Draco took a deep breath, straightened, and Apparated with a loud crack.

It worked.

There were no sounds of battle; the one hour cease-fire was still in force. The quiet was punctuated by cries of discovery, of sorrow as bodies were discovered, of anguish as the injured and dead were recognized. Draco did not pause to listen.

There was a short walk from the apparition field just past Hagrid's hut to the Slytherin dungeons and Professor Snape's quarters. Draco and Snape had used it before, a side door that was charmed to recognize only those who were current students or faculty in Slytherin. Draco sprinted toward it, trying to keep Snape's lightened body steady. He held out Snape's wand, said the charm that would open the door, and hurried inside, frustrated at even the brief amount of time to navigate Snape's body awkwardly through the door.

Draco was glad that Snape had never moved to the Headmaster's quarters, that he had held on to his rooms in the dungeons. He was likewise glad his godfather had given him the password, threatening dire consequences if he ever used it for anything short of an emergency. He couldn't imagine getting his godfather's body any further than the man's dungeon quarters.

Snape's rooms were dark. Draco pointed the wand at the sconces along the walls and lit them. Making his way to the sofa, he deposited Snape on it and, as if freed from a trap, sprinted toward the room off to the side where Severus kept his potions and supplies. Again with his godfather's wand, feeling a little less awkward each time he used it, Draco unlocked the door, pushed it open and, with a quiet _Lumos_, scanned the room. Reaching out to the various bottles lining the shelves that covered the walls from floor to ceiling, he grabbed a tall blue one, a clear round bottle, and a square red one. Blood replenisher, antivenin, and a potion to support heart function. None of that would do any good if Severus wasn't alive for the potions to course through him, however.

He needed the potion. _Put a stopper in death._ Severus would have made it. He would not have been able to have the recipe in hand and yet resist trying it.

Draco searched the shelves, looking for something misplaced, something… His father had taught them both this trick, hiding through misdirection… There. A long, red bottle on its side. Severus would never allow even that much disorder in his private stores. Draco reached toward the bottle, but then stopped himself. That was too easy. That would likely be a trap. He followed the mouth of the bottle, followed line of sight. It pointed to a small clear bottle that appeared to be empty. Draco made to pick it up, but it was stuck, as if affixed to the shelf. That would be it. But what would be the mechanism? He reached and removed the stopper.

As soon as he did, the stopper grew, changed colour. It elongated and became reddish. Clever. Draco carefully put the stopper in the red bottle on its side, and one of the shelves clicked loose, causing a segment of wood panelled wall, together with the shelves covering it, to swing slightly ajar. A flush of pride, both in himself for figuring it out, and in his godfather for going beyond the obvious, filled him for a moment, but Draco did not have time to indulge it. Draco pulled the now revealed cabinet door aside, to expose a cabinet twice the width of his shoulders, and three shelves tall. Shelves covered the back of the hidden cabinet door, as well as the back wall, making the storage double deep. They were meticulously labelled in Severus' spidery lettering: illegal potions, potions with rare ingredients, and potions that were virtually impossible to make, except by a master of Snape's competence.

Draco just needed the one. He hunted through the shelves, feeling the urgency, seeing Snape's body in his mind. He could be dead already. Snape said the potion had to be administered within a set amount of time. An hour? Half an hour? Draco could not remember. If only he could remember what the potion was called, he would take the risk. It was a strange name, almost as if it called on the Muggle deity. He visualized the page, saw the list of ingredients in his mind, saw the faded handwriting on the page, and then, as if accidentally, glanced upward to happen across the name of the potion. Godot. The potion was called Godot. Snape had laughed when Draco asked why, but wouldn't tell him.

He had to find it. Snape had to have made it. It had to be there. Draco's felt anguish rising as he scanned bottle after bottle. His breath was short and shallow with tension, his eyesight narrowed to see just the labels, Gestalt, Gethsemane, Grimoire… no, back. He had it!

Snape had brewed it.

Draco reached out, carefully, and picked up the bottle, afraid to drop it in his anxiety. He carried it carefully out to his godfather on the sofa, afraid he would spill it despite the stopper in the top.

Dosage. Draco did not have time to find the book with the recipe and dosage. He might already be out of time. He knelt by his godfather, unstoppered the bottle, and shook a drop onto the bluing lips. He reached for Severus' neck, searching for the spot where the pulse had thrummed. There was nothing. Pulling Severus' jaw down to open his mouth, Draco poured a drop directly on his tongue. Nothing. The pulse had stopped.

Frantic, Draco poured a full swallow's worth of the potion directly on the back of Severus' tongue, stroking the front of his throat, hoping it would cause the swallowing reaction like it did for animals.

"Swallow. Swallow. Please swallow…" Draco muttered a desperate litany. But Severus lay still. Draco pointed Severus' wand at his throat and shouted, "swallow, curse you!" A spark of uncontrolled magic rolled like lightning off Draco's skin, down the wand, and burst with a bright yellow light at Severus' throat, leaving behind a circle of burned skin.

Severus Snape swallowed.

He coughed, sputtering some of the draught back, dribbling it across his lips in a smear of red spittle.

And then Draco's fingers felt it. A slow bump against his fingertips. A pulse. Slow, too slow. Draco reached for the next bottle. He needed to get the poison out. He poured the antivenin into Severus' open mouth, then cast a charm on the open wound on the potion master's neck. He saw the poison stream out, and then the dark, oxygen-starved blood.

Next, an organ strengthening potion, for the heart, lungs, liver. Draco poured half of the small bottle in.

Severus' breathing steadied, the pulse became more regular and the time between heartbeats less.

Draco wanted to close the wound, but he was not controlled enough using another wizard's wand, especially not _this_ wand, and did not want to risk doing more harm than good. He could scarcely believe he hadn't caused damage in the spells he _had_ cast. Only the truly desperate would use another wizard's wand, let alone for something delicate. He had needed to work for weeks to get his mother's wand to behave, and hers was surprisingly compatible with him. Holding his teacher's wand, Draco still could not help but feel like he was intruding. Severus Snape was extremely protective of his privacy, and Draco was using one of the most intimate tools a wizard owned. Now that Snape was breathing regularly, Draco did not dare use the wand directly on his body again.

But the older man was dangerously white, and the wound was still leaking blood. It looked free of venom, so Draco used the wand to rip two strips of cloth from his burned, torn, dust-covered robes, and spelled them clean with a _Scourgify_. He wadded one to press against the wound at the base of the neck where it met the shoulder, and bound the other around the wadded cloth and under the opposing shoulder.

When it looked like the blood loss had slowed, Draco poured the blood replenishing potion into Severus' mouth, and watched with wild, crazed joy as the other man swallowed.

Everything he had used, every bit of knowledge on how to use these potions, and on what they did and what to watch for, was due to the man lying before him. Draco was merely an instrument of Severus Snape's knowledge and skill. This time, Draco found he did not mind.

Still, Severus needed more than Draco could offer. Without a wand under his control, Draco had done all he could. Much as he wanted to stay and stand guard until Severus got better, his godfather was not yet well. If Draco were to just sit here, it might be only to watch as he d–

No. Draco needed to get a healer.

Draco activated the floo in Snape's sitting room, but then paused. The Hospital floo might well be active, but Draco rather doubted that he'd be welcome, if he burst through. Chances were he'd be at the end of several curses and hexes if he did. Asking for help for Severus Snape was not likely to provide much in the way of results. No, he needed to do it another way.

With one last look at Snape, Draco took the wand, and carefully cast a disillusionment charm on himself. He could feel the tingling of magic flowing on his skin, letting him know that it was working. Still holding the wand out, Draco left Snape's rooms and ran toward hospital wing. Would they be using it as such? Draco ran, cursing that he could not Apparate here and that the Floo was as good as closed to the likes of him.

The path from dungeon to hospital was not the clear path it once had been and his progress slowed as a result. While the dungeons were still fairly clear of debris, the ground floor and first floor were covered in chunks of rock burst loose from the castle walls, portraits that had fallen off those walls, some shrieking to anyone that passed to set them aright, some empty as the occupants crowded elsewhere, presumably to watch the battle. Draco did not want to see the bodies, bloodied and left behind like litter. He stepped over them when he could, and did his best to avoid looking at their faces lest he recognise a schoolmate, a teacher. Even if it were someone from another house, he was not sure he could bear it.

Well, maybe if it were a Weasel. But Draco's stomach twisted at even that image.

When he had repaired the vanishing cabinets last year, he had only imagined The Dark Lord's army of Death Eaters marching through, victorious, cowing the idiots that supported Dumbledore. He had imagined them cringing, recognising the superiority of the Dark Lord and the pure-blood way of life. He fantasized about the recognition he would get for being the one to make it happen. But after awhile, there was no illusion of victory to hold on to, only a desperate attempt to save his parents' lives. Even then, he could not have imagined this battlefield, nor could he now equate it with his school. This—carnage—this was not noble, this was not victory. And it should not have happened at Hogwarts. Hogwarts was for students to learn, to taunt each other, and compete with one another. It was for them to grow into their power. For all that Dumblebore was a daft do-gooder a few candles short of a cake, for all the ways the school had treated Slytherin like the squib stepchild no one wanted to talk about, Hogwarts was still – Hogwarts. A place where Dumbledore had offered Draco a second chance, even while the old man was at the end of Draco's wand. Hogwarts was where Draco had the chance to learn, to excel, to show off what he was capable of, albeit coming in second to a bloody Mudblood. Draco's father hadn't forgiven him for that.

He climbed the stairs to third level, the staircase suddenly lurching sideways as he neared the top, and he had to wait for it to settle before he burst off it, into the corridor. He could see sky. The walls here had been crushed in places, jagged edges with large openings. Pieces of the ceiling had come crashing to the floor. The direct path was blocked, so he made his way around, down another corridor, then nervously crossing a bridge high up above the middle courtyard.

There was no one alive in the corridors, but he could hear that the battle had started again. Everyone was outside, and the Dark Lord was shouting something about Potter. The sound of the response made Draco wonder what had happened. But he couldn't think about Potter now, he had to get to the Hospital wing.

As he got closer, he saw people again, ahead of him, in the main corridor to the hospital rooms. Some people carried bodies, others helped friends as they limped along, with burns, cuts, broken limbs, or disfigured body parts.

Now that he was here, Draco needed to be careful. He could still feel the charm on his skin, causing eyes to look away. _No one important here._ He knew anyone who saw him would see different features than his, would not see his begrimed white-blond hair, or his face or body shape. Nevertheless, Draco ducked behind a statue into an alcove in the wall, getting out of the way of the people milling about the hall.

They were all against the Dark Lord. And while Draco knew he could not fight for the—for _Voldemort_ (he was no longer a lord that Draco wanted to follow, dark or not, after what he had done to Snape) no one else knew that. If they were to see past his Disillusionment charm, not only would he not get what he came for, he would get a first-hand experience of a lovely array of hexes and curses, and possibly a reserved room with all the amenities at Azkaban.

Unless Voldemort won.

Draco had no idea what Voldemort would do with him. Nor, at this point, did he want to know. His only concern right now was getting the best healer he could for his godfather.

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_AN: Thanks for reading! I adore reviews - they help me keep writing!_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. _


	4. Chapter 4: The Healing

_Thank you to my readers and reviewers! You are awesome! Sunset and Stardust: you are my day and night! :)_

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Chapter 4: The Healing – Draco

_May 2, 1998_

Draco saw Madame Pomfrey pass the door several times, issuing orders to people who had volunteered to help, students too young to fight in the battle, or adults trained as healers. He did not recognize the healers. Perhaps some had been sent from St Mungo's. That would be a good thing; Draco doubted that Madame Pomfrey would willingly leave the hospital wing to help Snape if she were the only healer available. But if there were several from St Mungo's, he had a chance.

Waiting until there was a brief lull in the bustle into the hospital rooms, Draco checked to feel the slight prickle on his skin that confirmed the Disillusionment charm was still active, and emerged from behind the statue. He ducked into the same room he had last seen Madame Pomfrey enter. She continued to a small office through a door on the far wall, and Draco followed, closing the door behind him. What luck!

"I need your help." Draco dropped the Disillusionment charm. He held Snape's wand ready, but did not point it at her.

Madame Pomfrey turned around, looking calm, but Draco had seen her jump at the sound of his voice. He opened his posture, trying his best to look unthreatening.

It hurt to see her glaring so coldly at him. She had always been kind to him when he had come to get medical attention. Of course, he had come for medical attention often. He didn't admit to anyone, least of all Madame Pomfrey, that he liked it when she fussed over him.

"You will have to wait your turn, Mr Malfoy." She cast a cold gaze at him, glancing up and down. "There are people in far greater need than you."

For a second, Draco could not figure out what she meant. He was not severely injured. Then he chanced to catch sight of himself in the mirror behind her, and noticed that his skin was red and blistered in places, from the fire, and he had cuts and scratches and the occasional bruise scattered across his arms, and face, and probably his legs as well. He was filthy from crawling through the cave, his hair was lank and darkened with grime, and had Severus' blood splattered on his robes, especially on his shoulder where he had been carrying his godfather. Draco had not stopped long enough to be aware of the pain. Now that he had, the burn from the heat of the Fiendfyre _stung_.

"You don't understand. It is not for me."

"You _dare_ to come here for help for one of your _D__eath Eater_ friends? After they have sent patient after patient here? Your schoolmates are _dying_! I swore that I would care for all who needed it, but when I see the lives you people have destroyed…"

Draco had never heard her quite so emotional. "It's Headmaster Snape!" He interrupted her.

"Snape!" Madam Pomfrey spat. "After what he let into Hogwarts! You were here this past year… do you seriously expect me to leave here where good, brave people need my help, to help that _murderer_?"

"I don't care what Professor Snape has or has not done. The Dar — Vol-Voldemort tried to _kill_ him. He almost _died_. He could still be dying. Please, you have to help him. _Please_." Draco was proud his voice did not crack, but the need was clear in his tone. He told himself he was letting the emotion through to accomplish his objective, but he if he were honest with himself, he thought it would have broken through anyway.

Madam Pomfrey stared at Draco. The coldness in her eyes did not abate. After a few minutes, she blinked, and a shudder ran down her body. When she returned her gaze to him, she squared her shoulders as if making a decision. "Where is he?"

Draco suddenly had a thought. "You won't turn him in?"

"I can't promise that!" A look of pain crossed her face. "He murdered the Headmaster. He will have to be held accountable for his actions."

Draco's head ticked back stubbornly. "I can't take you to him if you'll only turn him in. You know he won't get a fair trial. They'll send him to _Azkaban_. Death would be preferable to the Kiss."

"We don't have time for this. Either lead me to him or let me return to my other patients."

"Just promise me…"

"What?"

Draco could not think. He had so little to bargain with. The Dark Lord had taken the Dementors away from Azkaban. It was possible the Ministry would not be able to round them up again. But Draco did not want to rely on what was _possible_. Maybe he could Obliviate her after she healed Snape. Draco looked at the wand in his hand. He didn't know if he could trust his skill with it for such a delicate spell, much less against a woman who had been kind to him when few others were. He knew he would do what was necessary, but… he hoped it would not be necessary. When did he start relying on hope? He felt very foolish when he continued.

"Just promise me you'll give him a _chance_."

Madame Pomfrey paused, searching out something in Draco's face.

Her voice was a bit softer when she agreed. "Yes, I can promise that. Now where is he?"

Draco relented. His godfather needed care, and he was not skilled enough to give it. He just hoped the man would forgive him. "In his rooms. I left him there. I could not close the wound; I don't have my wand anymore." He noticed her gaze at the wand in his hand. "This is Professor Snape's."

Madam Pomfrey turned to the freestanding wooden cabinet along one wall, opened the door, and pulled a few bottles from its shelves, together with winding bandages, a notebook, and a few other items Draco did not recognise.

"Well, come on then." She grabbed him by the wrist, leaving him no time to recast the Disillusionment charm, and dragged him out of the office and into the larger room they had passed through. At the sight of Draco, wands came out, pointing directly at him. It was unnerving to be in the middle of a circle of bristling wands.

Madam Pomfrey ignored them, pulled him to the open hearth in the room, grabbed some floo powder from a pot standing near it, and tossed it in. The flames burst green. "Professor Snape's Rooms," she murmured so quietly that Draco was sure he was the only one that heard. She stepped in and pulled Draco in with her with a firm grip on his wrist.

He steadied himself from the spinning of floo transport, wiped the soot off but leaving smears of soot and grime on his clothes and arms. He imagined what his father would say to such a display, but there were things more important than the Malfoy bearing at present.

Severus lay where Draco had left him, but his breathing was more ragged, and his skin seemed flushed and feverish.

Madam Pomfrey absently let go of Draco's wrist, either ignoring him or forgetting he was here, and focussed her entire attention on Headmaster Snape's body. Flicking her wand, she cast several diagnostic spells, concentrating on the results.

"I am not doing this for _you_, or for _him_, but for the sake of my oath." Madame Pomfrey commented to him abruptly. "What did you do to him?"

"It wasn't me!" Draco protested.

"I mean, what did you give him?"

Draco hesitated, but knew she would need to know to help Professor Snape. "I found his potion of Godot." Draco whispered. And then antivenin, and—"

"Why an antivenin? What happened?"

"It was Nagini. She bit him. I believe Vo- Voldemort commanded it—for her to kill him." He sounded incoherent even to himself.

Madame Pomfrey glanced sharply at him, and then dropped her gaze to make a notation in her medical journal. "Continue."

"After the antivenin I gave him a blood replenisher, and an organ strengthener."

"Be more specific, child. Which antivenin? Which blood replenisher, which organ strengthener?"

He told her the dosages and the specific potions, detailing each drop and attempt, indicating each phial as he spoke. She made a few more notes in her journal.

"Let me see those."

He gathered the bottles she had indicated from the table and gave them to her.

Madam Pomfrey's eyes widened at the Potion of Godot, as if seeing the bottle with its label awakened her to what it was, where Draco's words had not. "You gave him this? You realize what damage you would have done if he his injuries had not been fatal? Are you sure—" She asked him.

"His pulse had stopped."

Poppy Pomfrey felt her face go white at the words. She had not agreed with anything Headmaster Snape had done this last year, and even now found it difficult to believe that the man she had worked with for 18 years had become the man she saw this past year.

She had thought she knew the man. He came to her when he was spying for Albus, whenever the punishments from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named exceeded the potency of the potions Severus had on hand. They would talk, and he would confide what he could: not the details that were reserved for Albus and the Order, but his own concerns. He never spoke directly, instead only obliquely mentioning how events around him and his own actions affected him, but she knew that speaking with her was part of why he came to her, and she was well aware that sometimes he had the potions he needed to relieve his pains and heal his injuries, but came to her nevertheless.

She had been shocked when she discovered he had killed Albus. She knew Albus was dying, of course. She knew of the curse. She and Severus had worked together to retard its progress. But its effects on Albus continued to get stronger, and Albus continued to weaken. When it was discovered that Albus was dead, that Severus and young Malfoy had disappeared, she did not know what to make of it. And then poor Harry said he had seen Severus kill Albus. That Severus was a murderer.

Poppy had felt betrayed, as if their friendship was merely a part of the ruse, part of a dark plan. But after the funeral, she had a chance to think. Albus had been dying, and she knew he would sacrifice anything to see Voldemort's evil set down. Even his own life. It was possible…

So when the school year began again, and Severus returned to be Headmaster, she hoped he would come to her as before. To confide, in his oblique way, the pressures he was under. But Severus never came to see her. He stopped talking to her the day Albus died. And the behaviour Severus allowed as headmaster—she could not juxtapose that picture with the man she had known.

She kept to the hospital wing that year, rarely venturing out. There were violent injuries to be healed, more than in even the clumsiest of Quidditch seasons, significantly more than the average, even skewed by the Potter boy's all too frequent visits in past years. There had been Cruciatus victims in her infirmary. In a school! Cast by teachers, sometimes by students! And regretfully, Poppy had decided that Severus was not the man she thought she knew. The Severus she knew would not have allowed that to happen.

But He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had tried, had nearly succeeded in killing him. Why would he want to kill such a staunch supporter, one who had betrayed everyone he knew for the sake of his master? The thought gave her just enough pause to re-awaken her sense of duty.

She knew that for the Godot potion to work, the waiting had to be almost over. It needed to be administered at the point of death, to stop it. He had been close. It did not bring back life, merely prevented death. If administered too early, it could cause permanent damage, locking the spirit of the person between life and death. Administered at just the right time, it stoppered up the rip that let the living out. Madame Pomfrey had heard Severus' opening day speech enough times to know exactly which potion he meant when he said "put a stopper in death." And she would have to pull that stopper out. But first, she would heal the body.

She pulled aside the clumsy wrapping around shoulder and neck. Directing her wand at it, she cast a spell. "There is no venom left in the wound," she commented.

Draco recognized the other two spells she cast, one was to knit the skin together, and another was a general diagnosis. He had been on the receiving end of those spells many times.

Draco sat at the edge of Professor Snape's chair, a large chair upholstered in leather dyed forest green. When she cast, he could see the wound closing, could see his mentor's chest rising and falling. Relief washed through him at the even breathing. He felt like a marionette that had just had the strings cut, sagging onto the chair, breathing heavily.

"He may be out for a few hours. I will need to cast another spell on him, one that will balance his magical energy again. It has been… disturbed."

Draco nodded.

"For this spell to work, Mr Malfoy, he needs to be left completely alone. You may not return for at least four hours, lest you cause him irreparable damage. And you will need to leave his wand. The spell requires it, for the best chance of success."

Draco did not want to be wandless again. He knew he could not keep this wand, but the thought of being out in the battle without a wand again made him deeply nervous. This was his godfather's wand, however, and Snape needed it. Draco knew all too well the unbalanced feeling of being without his wand. Reluctantly, he bypassed Madame Pomfrey's outstretched hand, and placed the wand on Snape's chest, adjusting his hand so it held the wand in place. He lifted his own hand, but did not step back, looking down on his godfather, noticing the even breathing with a slight glimmer of relief. But Snape did not look good in any other way.

"Headmaster Snape will still be here when you get back. And either he will be alive or he will be dead. Either way, there is nothing more you can do. It is time for you to leave."

"But—"

"While you stand there, you delay me from doing what I must do. Your risk his chance of survival. And I have _other_ patients that need my skills." She nodded at the fire place through which they had come, making it clear that she would be leaving as soon as the spell was cast.

Her tone may have implied '_more worthy_' patients, patients that had not been Death Eaters. It could have been something else entirely. Draco felt a burn of emotion that might have been anger, but could well have been something less righteous that he could not recognise.

"But—"

"It is not a spell to interfere with. There can be no other magical fields in the room while the spell balances his. Go. Now." Madame Pomfrey pointed at the door, and her stance made it clear that she would not do another thing for Snape while Draco was present.

He exited the room, pushed out not by magic but by the force of her will, and Madame Pomfrey wasted no time in waving the door closed behind him. He could feel the gust of air against his cheeks, as he turned to get one more glimpse of his godfather before the door shut. Had he been a few inches closer, the door would have hit him in the face.

* * *

_AN: Thanks for reading! I adore reviews - they help me keep writing! Questions help me think about the story, and comments give me joy!_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. _


	5. Chapter 5: A Malfoy Family Reunion

Thank you to my readers and reviewers! You are my motivation to keep writing!

* * *

**Chapter 5: A Malfoy Reunion Aftermath – Malfoys**

_May 2, 1998_

Draco felt lost. It seemed as if one of the pillars of his life had just been pulled away. Snape had been steady, even at those times when his father was not. He had pushed, supported and protected Draco, even when Draco had resisted. Snape was driven and drove others. He was cold to almost everyone, but Draco had seen both fire and affection in the man's eyes.

He had nearly died. Despite all Draco had done, his godfather could be dying even now, and it was out of his hands.

Exhaustion washed over Draco as he stared at the closed door. There was a battle being fought, he could hear bits of it. He felt no desire to fight in it, not for either side, even if he hadn't been wandless.

A slight prick of obligation made his stomach clench. His parents were wandless too, and it was – at least partially – because of him. He was the one that had, and then _lost_, his mother's wand.

He felt the sudden need to find his parents. They would be here; Voldemort would not have left anyone behind. Everyone had been needed, to fight in the battle, and to witness the Dark Lord's victory. Even the students who had received the Dark Mark had received last minute alerts by a pre-arranged code, telling them to be ready to take part in the battle.

He knew he should find a hiding place. He should stay put and avoid being caught, but without a wand, he could see no way to find his parents _and_ to stay safe. He thought briefly about finding some of his Slytherin cohorts for safety in numbers, but the memory of the Death Eater's words earlier made his position clear. He was not protected. Neither side valued Draco Malfoy. That was going to be their mistake, he promised himself.

He had no wand, but he was a Malfoy. He would not cringe.

Draco squared his shoulders, pulled his head up, and looking straight ahead, and walked away from his godfather's suite, not seeing where he was going except to avoid obstacles. He did not look anyone in the face. At first there were few people, but once he left the dungeons, the halls became more crowded. He paid no attention to the startled gazes, the nervous wands following his movement. He just kept walking. When he climbed the stairs to the main floor, he heard cheering. His godfather might be dying, despite all Draco had done to heal him, and there was cheering. There was a quality to the cheers that told him that it was not Death Eaters cheering. He heard relief and joy, but no mockery toward the defeated. Voldemort had been vanquished. Draco was too numb to feel anything at the thought. Potter had probably killed him. Again. Potter would probably be cheering with the rest of them. Was probably being cheered _by_ the rest of them. Potter had won. And by this, Draco knew he had lost.

Draco suddenly turned toward the tumult. If they were cheering, that means they were rounding up Death Eaters, those they had not killed, those that had not escaped. Draco did not want to escape just then. He needed to find his parents. _Let there be something left of my life._

As he got closer to the Great Hall, from which jubilant noise could be heard from several corridors away, Draco found it harder to avoid obstacles, in this case, people. He kept his walk a determined stride, instead of his usual lazy amble. He was going into the heart of enemy territory.

He was not sure what he expected. The jubilation, yes. The crowds of people, students he knew, Aurors in their distinctive robes, other adults he knew from his father ranting about them. A whole mess of Weasleys. They were all pounding each other on the back, hugging each other, clustering around a dark haired person Draco would recognize in his sleep. They were touching the bloody Boy Who Lived as if he were a fucking god, as if his mere touch was equivalent to spells of protection and abundance, all rolled into one.

A small group were unceremoniously carrying a body off through a doorway Draco had seen the teachers come through for meals. Voldemort was dead. Severus was alive (he hoped), and Voldemort was dead. Draco recognised the pasty, green-tinted skin, and wondered how that creature had managed to sway people of value, people like his father. At the thought, he saw them. His parents sat at one of the house tables, which had been shoved toward one end of the room, their heads bent, holding each other's hands. His mother's left eye had been blackened, bruises stretched from her eye, down her cheek, to meet up with one spanning her neck and disappearing beneath her robes. His father, normally so elegant, had scratches and cuts that had not been healed across his face had hands. They both looked somehow broken.

A wash of hatred and fury flowed through Draco, burning his skin as hot as the Fiendfyre had. No one had the right to make his parents look like that. And the worst part was, it wasn't Potter's group that had brought them low. His parents were being ignored in all the elation that surrounded them. It had been Voldemort.

He remembered his shock over midwinter and spring holidays, at the way his parents behaved around Voldemort. His father, once he had finally been broken out of Azkaban, cringed and bowed before him, kissing the hem of Dark Lord's robes. His mother just bowed her head and did as the Dark Lord asked, acting the hostess for the Death Eaters who came to give reports and receive instructions. Draco knew they were being punished for his failures. Every Cruciatus inflicted on his father, Draco felt. Voldemort had used his parents as hostel keepers, taking the manor as his own. His parents had _let him_.

Each injury, each curse, each degradation had made Draco that much more desperate to return to the Dark Lord's good side. Then Draco had found Snape. Seeing his parents broken like this, seeing how Snape had been attacked by the very Master he followed, it all became clear to Draco. Voldemort _had_ no good side. Voldemort used people, and cared for no cause but his own.

Voldemort had used them up and spat them out. And his parents had _let him do it_.

As Draco made his way with accelerating footsteps toward them, he found himself convinced of one thing. He would never again let another choose his way for him. He would never give his will over to another.

He stood in front of his parents, close enough to touch them, not saying anything. It somehow did not matter if anyone saw him. No one was paying attention anyway.

After a moment, his mother, then his father, looked up. Their eyes widened, and he was grabbed, pulled toward them in a gesture he never would have expected. The hands that grabbed him, the arms that hugged him, they were his father's.

Draco saw the approaching group first. The crowds had started to disperse, Potter had disappeared. No other Slytherins were in the hall. No Death Eaters were here, except for the three of them. Draco guessed it was their turn. Three people in Aurors' robes approached, a tall bald man with rich, dark skin, a shorter man with sandy hair, and a smaller, round faced woman.

He touched his father's shoulder. Lucius looked up, straightened his shoulders, and stood up. His mother remained seated, her posture becoming impossibly more erect as if she were lifted by wires, lifting her face, uncaring that she revealed the darkly mottled bruising to the light. Draco felt a fierce glow of pride, as his father and mother gazed with cool dispassion at the oncoming Aurors. Despite all that had been done to them, they faced their fate standing tall. _This_ was what it meant to be a Malfoy.

"Mr Malfoy, Mrs Malfoy, Mr Malfoy," the Auror in front said, nodding to each of them in turn. The two Aurors behind him had their wands at the ready, but not pointed directly at the Malfoys. The one in front also had his wand out, but at rest. Draco did not fool himself that the man would be incapable of bringing it to bear at the least provocation.

"Shacklebolt." His father said the word with absolute calm. His voice was empty, and Draco heard something that he had never heard before. Underneath the calm, his father had given up. The façade still held. Habits of a lifetime gave his father the patterns of "how to deal with members of the government." An outsider would not have noticed, but Draco did.

"I will need your wands." Shacklebolt gestured to one of the other Aurors, the younger, round-faced woman. She looked like she'd have been more suited to running a florist's shop, or teaching children too young for Hogwarts. Her face was steady, however, as was her hand as she held it out in calm expectation. Shacklebolt looked pointedly at his father's walking stick. Of course the wand was registered; it was not a secret wand. It was a trademark, part of his father's presence.

Lucius Malfoy nodded and offered his dragon-headed walking stick as if offering food to a guest, as if it were a point of courtesy.

Shacklebolt tipped the serpent's head of the walking stick, and looked inside. "Your wand is not here, Mr Malfoy. I'm afraid I must insist—"

"The Dark Lord took it for his own use, some time ago. He saw no… need for me to have it." Lucius' voice was quiet, seemingly devoid of emotion. But Draco heard the thrum underneath. His father was in there, not just in the calm of the voice and the pride that made him stand tall, but also in the fury that Draco knew to listen for. It was buried deep, but still there. Draco could hope.

"And your wife's? And young Mr Malfoy's?"

Draco kept the scowl from his face with great effort. Young Mr Malfoy indeed.

"My wife does not have hers on her at the moment. I believe my son—"

"It is gone. Most likely burnt." Draco looked at his mother as he said it, and because he was looking for it he saw the momentary pull on her features, as she took that in. Draco knew how it felt to lose a wand. To have his own wand not only taken, but destroyed, would have devastated him. Potter still had Draco's, was _using_ it. There was a chance—a remote chance—that Draco could get it back. His mother's pale, bruised face became impassive after that slight twitch.

"And what happened to your wand, Mr Malfoy?" Shacklebolt spoke directly to him for the first time.

"Potter took it. That's when my mother lent me hers."

"Well then. My apologies, but I must verify that you do not have wands in your possession." Draco's father's eyes glittered like ice, and his mother went still. "By your leave…" Draco moved away from the table, keeping his eyes on the Aurors and his parents. His mother rose with quiet grace, and joined her husband. Shacklebolt pointed his wand to each of them in turn, and spoke a charm. Nothing happened.

"Thank you for your cooperation. I'm sure you understand, we cannot leave you to move freely around the school. As you did not actively fight against us _today_," the emphasis in the man's voice on the last word indicated his certainty that none of them were innocent, "we have arranged for you to be detained without extreme discomfort. If you would follow me." Shacklebolt turned on his heel and walked away; one of the two other Aurors gestured with her wand for the three Malfoys to follow Shacklebolt while they brought up the rear.

At least they were not being separated. They were being treated respectfully, which Draco did not expect.

The room to which they were led was a classroom in which the windows had been charmed away, and the door warded to prevent entrance or exit without knowledge of the password. Several of the desks were transfigured into comfortable chairs, and one table had some water and bread. Prison fare, perhaps, but it looked fresh.

"This is only temporary, until we find more appropriate _accommodation_ for you." The sandy-haired Auror's face twisted as he spoke. He paused. "We are making arrangements for you to be detained comfortably, here in the castle, although it may fall short of _your_ standards." The Auror sneered. "Until we have time to do so, you will have to make do with this."

Draco felt the wards engage as the door closed. There was a sense of being enclosed, as if the airflow had ceased. Draco repressed the momentary claustrophobia.

Lucius Malfoy turned to his son. "What can you tell me?" Draco saw the light of his father's eyes. He was there, he was engaged.

"You saw more than I did, I think. Were you there when the Dark Lord was killed?"

"We saw it. We even heard it. Do you know _why_ Potter was able to vanquish the Dark Lord, Draco? Do you know what you could have done if you had followed through, even once?"

Draco looked at his father, surprised at the sudden turnabout. He probably should not have been.

He knew his father loved him, and he would treasure the knowledge that his father would put family before everything else in a crisis. He could still feel his father's arms around him, holding him as if he were all that mattered. Even so, Draco had been watching ever since his father got out of Azkaban, as bit by bit, Lucius Malfoy lost control. The Dark Lord had done this. He had taken his father's wand, his political power, his home, and assumed the right to use his family as he saw fit.

Part of him was glad his father was capable of the intensity in his voice, even if it was aimed at him. The emptiness he had seen increasingly over the school holidays had receded for a bit. Draco would gladly take the vitriol if only to have his father engaged with him again for a little while longer. His father. Strong. Angry. Malfoy.

His mother looked between them, the pallor in her face setting off the bruises in stark contrast. She stood just to the side forming a triangle with the two of them, her face calm, but the hand she lifted briefly as if to calm one of them betrayed her. She dropped her hand to her side again.

"The Dark Lord had the Elder Wand in his hand, Draco," his father continued. "He expected to be able to use it. But do you know why it did not work? Harry Potter knew. He knew you had disarmed Dumbledore, while he was holding the Elder Wand." His father's voice was quiet. "Did you realise what would have happened if you had picked up that wand, Draco? You would have been its master. Instead, you allowed Harry Potter to take _your_ wand, and thus allowed Harry Potter to become master of the Dark Lord's wand. You allowed _Harry Potter_ to be master of the Elder Wand."

Draco felt himself grow cold. It sounded like his father was blaming him for Voldemort's demise.

Something twisted inside Draco. He could not bear what Voldemort had done to his parents, to Snape. The cold in the pit of his stomach suddenly burned. "I'm glad." Draco said quietly. "If I had even a little to do with his destruction, Father, I'm glad." He saw his father's face pale, even further than the already white features. He saw the eyes tighten.

Draco continued, looking away from his father's eyes, afraid of what he might find there, but unwilling to stop what he had to say. These thoughts had been growing on him for a while. He had refused them, fought them, avoided them. He had made unreasonable vows and promises, and ignored what he had come to understand.

"He was not worth following. He was not worth having _Malfoys_ follow him. He had no control, he acted on his emotions. What kind of pure-bloods are we to follow that? He tortured his followers even more than his enemies. And why? Because we let him. Because we were nearby! I saw him cast the Cruciatus curse on _you_, and on _mother_! You accepted it, and _still_ followed him."

"Are you finished?" Lucius Malfoy's voice was flat. Draco had not heard the cold intensity in his father's voice, or the power he imbued in just those few words, in all the time Voldemort had infested Malfoy Manor.

"For the moment. Father."

Lucius approached his son. "I will overlook your…outburst. I will overlook it, because you have expressed an excellent strategy for getting out of _this__."_ Lucius' hand gestured to encompass the windowless, locked and warded room they found themselves in. "You will say exactly that to the Aurors and to whoever is in charge of this school. You will say whatever you need to say to keep your place here, and in our society. We find ourselves in an unfortunate situation, but it will not last. And Draco." Lucius' voice was quiet, almost dead, but Draco heard the thrum. "Do not speak with such disrespect for me, or my choices, _ever_ again."

Draco could feel his father's breath with each word, in tight, intense bursts against his cheeks. Lucius turned his back, and selected one of the tables to sit on, the wooded benches being too low to the ground for one to be able to sit on them with any dignity, and the upholstered furniture that had been transfigured from desks and chairs were not only too low, but also too …deep, to be able to regain an upright posture once one had seated oneself in them. When he had arranged himself on the table, he turned to look back at his son.

"We came to the battle hoping to find you, and you were not there. Where were you?"

Draco could not tell if his father was asking after his son, asking for information, or gathering something else to use against him.

"I was following Potter. It was in my mind to capture him and bring him to the Dark Lord, at first. After my—your," he nodded to his mother, "wand was burnt, I followed him for information—some way to help the Dark Lord's cause, to cause him to look upon the Malfoys with favour again."

"And how did my wand come to be burnt?" His mother's voice was deceptively calm.

"Crabbe cast Fiendfyre. It got out of hand. He… he burnt in it."

Lucius closed his eyes. "I shall tell his father, if I get the opportunity." Narcissa came to sit next to her husband, and placed a hand on his back.

When Lucius opened his eyes, the spark of his personality had receded, his eyes revealing nothing, empty.

* * *

**Interlude – Severus Snape**

_May 2, 1998_

Severus Snape was irritated.

He was not dead.

That was probably the worst of it.

In addition, he could not move. There was an irksome buzzing around him, but he was not sure if it was heard by his ears or in his mind. He ached, and had pains. That last was not unusual; the Dark Lord did not hesitate to use the Cruciatus Curse liberally. It was probably the only liberal thing about him.

The echo of pain in his neck was not as severe as he would have expected, if he had expected to feel anything at this point. He had fulfilled his role, had informed the Potter brat what he needed to know—Snape cringed to think of the brat having access to those memories. It had been necessary; it had been the only way to get the information to the boy by that point. Potter could not fail to recognise the silvery blue quicksilver fluid; he had certainly had familiarity with it from invading his privacy. But would Potter do as he was supposed to and view his Potion Master's intimate memories? Would he do as he was supposed to and submit himself to slaughter? Snape doubted it. It was one thing to charge with Gryffindorish foolhardiness into danger, where he could rely on being fawned over it later. It was clearly another thing to give himself over to an enemy to be tortured and killed, with no rescue in sight, and none to watch but other enemies.

How had Potter gotten there, at the critical moment? Why had Potter been there? The boy had the stupidest luck. Find the most dangerous spot, and Potter would be there. Naturally, other people would have to save him. Only this time, if Albus' planning came to fruition, no one would be there to save his precious Golden Boy.

He did not know what to think of that. He would not have expected it. Albus used Potter as ruthlessly as he had always used Severus himself. Potter had been set up as thoroughly as Severus had. Snape felt a deep unquiet at the thought of having anything in common with James Potter's son.

Snape was exhausted. He could not open his eyes. He could feel the buzzing against his skin, in his ears, in his mind. He retreated from it.

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_AN: Thanks for reading! I adore reviews - they help me keep writing! Questions help me think about the story, critiques help me write better, and comments give me joy!_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. _


	6. Chapter 6: After the Storm

_Note: The chapters up until here have been parallel with Book 7, only from Draco's point of view. We now catch up with Harry (and a few others)._

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**Chapter 6: After the Storm**

_May 2-3, 1998_

Harry, Hermione and Ron descended the stairs from Dumbledore's office. Harry could not imagine it being anyone else's office, even though he knew Snape had used it all last year, and someone else would be using it next year. Harry found himself reaching to touch the gargoyle as they passed, as if for luck. The gargoyle permitted it.

The sounds of the battle had given way to sounds of celebration. They came in distant bursts, partly from the great hall, but also from some of the towers, in echoes of freedom. Occasionally, Harry heard a cry that didn't sound like celebration, but he did not have the energy to consider the cause of those.

Peeves swooped by, still singing, but this time it was something along the lines of "really most sincerely dead…" Harry wondered where he had heard that before. Peeves must have run out of his own invention. That alone made the day one for the history books, even if there had not been that _other_ matter.

"He's really dead." Harry said quietly.

"Yeah." Ron said, satisfaction evident in his voice.

"You did it, Harry."

Harry put his arms around his two best friends. "We really did it. We three, and Neville. And everyone."

"I bet there's a party in Gryffindor tower." Ron commented, wistfully. "It'd be nice to see everyone."

Harry knew what Ron meant. After months on the road, with only each other for company, the noise and colours of the Gryffindor common room would be… welcoming. Besides, Ron was due for some recognition. He had destroyed a Horcrux. As had Harry, and Hermione, and Dumbledore, and Neville. Without any of them, they might not have won the war.

"Let's go," he said.

The fat lady let them in without even a password. The noise level doubled as they passed through the hole behind the portrait. Neville was there, with something that looked to Harry like crepe paper draped around his head. Patches of his skin were the fresh pink of newly healed burns. Harry winced at the memory of the sorting hat, and Neville, burning. He was glad Neville was none the worse for wear, and had the odd fond hope that the sorting hat likewise survived.

Past and present students filled the common room: he recognized Lee Jordan, Oliver Wood, and Seamus Finnegan. Ron was the only Weasley. There were fewer girls, but Harry saw Angelina and some girls from other houses: Hannah Abbott and Luna, among others. A lot of DA members were crowded into the room.

The noise redoubled as people saw the three of them, and they were half-deafened by the cheers and whoops.

For all that it was early morning, bottles and barrels of Butterbeer stood on tables and the floor, and random bits of food had either been summoned, or brought by house elves, brought out from where they had been squirreled away from care packages.

It felt good. The noise, the people, most of whom he knew and had worked with, it all felt right. He and Ron grabbed some food, Hermione grabbed a sofa, and the three collapsed into it and ate, letting the noise wash over them. They were home.

Half an hour later, the noise was unabated, the party was in full swing, with food, drink, and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, but the three heroes lay asleep, heads lolling on each other's shoulders.

* * *

Molly Weasley found the three of them later that day and woke them up just enough to bundle them through the Floo back to the Burrow, overriding Harry's indistinct protests that he did not want to intrude. Harry blearily wondered if the Burrow had been connected to the Floo Network the whole time, even with all the restrictions, or if Arthur had somehow managed to reconnect it after the battle.

He woke the next morning to the clatter and aroma of Molly cooking, and the rumble of Ron's snoring. He did not quite remember climbing the stairs to Ron's room, but he was back in the familiar camp bed, and was wearing a pair of pyjamas. It seemed to be morning, but he felt rested. Was it still the same day?

Harry put on the robe that was usually left on the hook near the cot for him, taking comfort in the idea of a robe left just for him. He shambled down to use the loo, and a quick cleansing charm on his teeth made him feel slightly more human. He wondered briefly where his rucksack was. Somehow, it was always more satisfying using a toothbrush than the charm. He speculated on whether the charm could be modified to leave his mouth tingly and minty, like toothpaste.

By the time he got downstairs, Mr Weasley, Ginny, and Charlie were sitting at the breakfast table, and there was enough food set out to feed the entire order, and their relatives. There were bangers and eggs, oatmeal, toast, grilled tomatoes and onions, kippers and pumpkin juice. Mr Weasley looked up from the Prophet and gave Harry a warm, welcoming smile.

"Look who's finally awake! Good morning, sleepyhead!" Mrs Weasley commented as she levitated something that smelled sweet out of the oven. Harry sat at one edge of one of the wooden benches on either side of the table, next to Ginny. She glanced at him, as if she wanted to say something, but then looked back down to her breakfast, as Mrs Weasley, with several flicks of her wand, put some of everything onto a plate for him.

"There you go, Harry dear, eat up."

The smell and clatter of breakfast brought down more people than Harry had ever seen in the Burrow, with the exception of Bill and Fleur's wedding.

"How long did we sleep?" Harry asked, a bit sheepishly.

"Well, _you_ slept almost twenty-four hours, I think, Harry. You must have been worn out. Ron and Hermione both woke up for a bit last night, just long enough for dinner, but we couldn't wake you. We decided you needed the sleep."

Harry nodded. He had not felt this rested since – well, since he could remember. This last year had been particularly gruelling, but he had never had the chance to truly rest. Whether it was chores at the Dursleys', or nightmares, or his scar burning with pain whenever Voldemort got angry, fear of returning to the Dursleys', or grief at way too many deaths… The grief was still there. But… Voldemort would not cause any more deaths. Harry no longer needed to dread the future. He only needed to grieve the past. That was enough. Harry did not know how he felt. The grief was heavy. But there were no more expectations on him. That was a particularly light feeling. The conflicting senses left him empty. Waiting.

They ate in silence, to the sound of cooking and the crinkle of the Prophet. Hermione came down and sat near Mr Weasley with a murmured "morning". She ate absently and scribbled notes on a parchment near to hand, thoroughly preoccupied. The feather of the quill occasionally tickled across her face and she scrunched her nose at it. Harry briefly smiled to himself. Hermione never changed. They had just returned from months on the road, survived torture and imprisonment, then 'vanquished the Dark Lord' in a pitched battle; they had not been in school all year and thus had no homework, but Hermione found something to take notes about. Somehow, that was comforting.

Percy appeared a bit later, and perched tentatively at one end of the bench, away from Harry. His movements were tight and careful. He kept his face lowered as he served himself small portions from the dishes near him. It looked to Harry as if Percy were trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. It was quite a change from the Percy that had tried to foist his views on everyone, so certain he was right.

Everyone fell silent as George entered. He sat unseeing as Molly put a full plate in front of him. Harry wished with all his being that Fred were there, and that the two would pull a prank, even on Percy. The silence was unbearable.

Fortunately, Ron lumbered down the stairs not too long after that. "Breakfast!"

Hermione looked up at that point. "Mrs Weasley, I can guarantee you that Ron thought of your cooking quite fondly—"

"And often!" Harry added.

"—While we were on our search." Hermione finished.

Ron flushed a deep red, but still heaped his plate full with some of everything within reach. "Mum's a good cook!" He said defensively.

"You three never had a chance to tell us what you did all these months." Molly Weasley started.

So they told her, and the rest of the Weasleys, of their trip. Of the café and how they were almost caught. Of breaking into the ministry, and running into Mr Weasley while under Polyjuice. Of almost getting caught again, at Grimmauld place. Of moving camp each night. Of Hermione researching. Of her clever bottomless beaded bag. Of Bathilda Bagshot, and how she was really Nagini. Of how joyful it was to hear Potterwatch on the wizarding wireless. Of being captured and held at the Malfoys', and how Dobby set them free, and the price he paid.

By unspoken agreement, they did not speak directly of the Horcruxes. There was a reason that such magic was hidden, not even written about except in the rarest of rare dark books. They did not talk about the time Ron wasn't with them. It had hurt them deeply, but he had come back when it really mattered. Harry had known that Ron was a hothead from early on, and more than any of them Ron spoke and acted without thinking. But there had been too many hurts and losses to hold onto one more.

"I think I am glad Molly and I didn't know all of this at the time." Arthur commented. We were very concerned about you, but I think we'd have been terrified if we knew the full extent of the danger you were in. Thank you for telling us." He gave the three a significant glance. "Later, perhaps you would share more than the bare bones. When Miss Granger and I return from the Ministry, I will very much like to hear details."

Harry looked up from his plate. Hermione was going to the Ministry today? He was going to ask when Mr Weasley stood up, glancing at the Weasley clock, where his hand pointed to "Almost Late." "Miss Granger and I should be off."

"Arthur…" Mrs Weasley started, her eyes fixed on her husband as he cast a worried glance at George, still sitting at the table, staring unseeing at his barely touched breakfast.

"Molly, now more than ever, I have to go in. There is so much to do to recover from what You-Know-Who did. If we ignore it, even for a few days, those who believe like him, and those who simply wish to take advantage, will ensconce themselves back into places where they can do the most harm. I don't want to leave you alone…"

Mrs Weasley stood straighter, wiping her hands down to smooth the fabric of her robes. The call of duty gave her strength. "No, you're right. We'll be fine. There are heroes of the battle here to keep us safe." She rested her hands on Ron's and Hermione's shoulders, as if by that touch they could strengthen each other. She deliberately spoke as if it were physical enemies that haunted them, enemies they could fight off, instead of the inner demons that Harry saw flicker intermittently in each of their eyes. "You and Hermione will be fine. We'll see you both this evening." She smiled with a false brightness. The battle was over, but none of them were ready to mourn, not even George, who was clearly too numb to grieve.

Harry remembered the numbness. He remembered the need to fill the hours with everyday tasks until he was physically exhausted enough that he might have a chance of sleep—all to delay grieving until...until it was real.

Mr Weasley stepped over to squeeze George's shoulder. "Yes. We can talk more later. Do you need anything before then?" His words could have been in response to Mrs Weasley, but Harry thought perhaps he was talking to George instead. A slight shake of George's head, so small he might have missed it if he had not been looking, was all the response that Mr Weasley got. It occurred to Harry that maybe Mr Weasley was really talking to himself, in an attempt to reassure himself that his family would still be there when he got back. That it was ok to go and do the job he needed to do, even if he and his family needed to grieve. Harry hoped that Mr Weasley could get George to talk. It would help both of them.

Harry suddenly understood all those people who tried to get him to talk about Sirius' death. Pushing wouldn't work until George was ready, but it hurt to see him staring at nothing like that. Harry tried to pretend that it was different, because the Weasleys could all share their grief and how much they missed Fred, but Harry knew that no matter what it felt like at the time, no matter how alone he had felt in his grief, other people mourned Sirius. At the very least, Remus did. Harry could not think about Remus right then, without wanting to go outside and howl for all that he had lost. His parents. Sirius. Now Remus. Nothing left of family. But the Weasleys had survived. All except Fred, whose very existence had brought mirth and light. And he did not want to think about that either. _It's over_, he reminded himself. These were the last deaths that Voldemort could cause. Voldemort had taken the last of Harry's family, but not the last of his friends. They were almost a family. And that would have to be enough.

He hoped none of the Weasleys felt the tearing anguish he had felt for Sirius. Somehow, while Fred's death hurt, and was just _wrong_, it was not the same for Harry as when Sirius died. Perhaps because it was not his own stupidity that caused the final battle. Or perhaps the fact that Sirius had been a tie to his parents is what had made Sirius' death hurt so much, and still did, if he let it. Or perhaps now Harry was just numb, after all that had happened. Perhaps it would all hit him later.

As Hermione and Mr Weasley flooed out, Mrs Weasley banished the food scraps from the dishes and started flicking the dishes over to a basin where a brush scrubbed industriously across each one in a flurry of bubbles. Ron reached over to pick up the Prophet that his father had left behind, scanning the stories. Harry began to gather the serving dishes with food on them, but Mrs Weasley waved him to sit down again. "You just sit and relax, Harry dear." She cast a stasis charm on the food still on the table ("I expect you'll be hungry later"), and cast something like Aguamenti on the dishes in the basin, only it rinsed them in steaming hot water. After a quick drying charm, she flicked them back into the cupboards.

After the dishes were done, Mrs Weasley shooed them upstairs to shower and dress for the day.

Harry did not know what had happened to his clothing, or, in fact, anything of his except what he was wearing, his wand, and his cloak, so while Ron took his turn in the shower, Molly had Charlie find some of the twins' old clothes for Harry. Ron had been too large by the time they were ready to be handed down, so Fred and George's old clothes had been stored away, in wait for just such a need. Despite the fact that some of the clothes had previously belonged to Percy (he could see the carefully sewn-in name tags in some of them, the stitches so neat Harry thought they must have been done magically) and some even to Charlie before that, the clothes were in better shape than what he usually got handed down from Dudley. Harry imagined the hand-me-down paths based on size: from Charlie, who, according to the pictures on the walls, had had a seekers build before he went to work with dragons, to Percy to Fred and George, and from the more sturdily built Bill to Ron. Somehow imagining it gave off waves of family that made Harry homesick for something he had never experienced. Why hand-me-downs in the Weasley family were redolent of love, and in the Dursley family reeked of hate and disdain, he could not figure. That was just how it was.

None of the clothes were in the latest style, but wizarding culture moved slower than Muggle culture, so clothes from ten years ago were not unusual. There were even a few tie-dye shirts that had been imported from Muggle culture, and a pair of tie-dye trousers that he could imagine Fred wearing, but would never consider himself.

Harry took his turn in the shower and donned some of the new hand-me-downs, which fit better than anything he had ever worn except his school robes.

* * *

_May 3, 1998_

Molly obviously thought they needed a day or several off, for she did not have a list of chores for Ron as she usually did.

It was good to spend time with Ron, with nothing more important to do than get to lunch on time. Ron's orange room made Harry feel nostalgic. It felt like a lifetime had passed, since they had last been here. But now they were back, as if they were still children. They talked Quidditch, they played chess (Ron won), they avoided anything serious. It cropped up anyway.

"Do you think the Cannons will make the finals this year?" Harry asked, because he knew Ron could talk for hours about the Cannons. He put down a card.

They were sitting on the floor in Ron's room, in the narrow space between the beds. After the last time playing exploding snap, when the quilt on Ron's bed caught fire, they had been forbidden from playing on the bed, the sofa, or any other flammable surfaces. It occurred to Harry that the wooden floor might be considered flammable, but Ron told him it had been sealed and charmed against any number of things, from insects to fire to warping. Harry wondered why the quilt had not likewise been charmed, and Ron did not have an answer.

Ron looked at the card as if trying to decide if it contained some secret mystery, then picked one from the pile. "Is there going to be a season this year? In the Prophet this morning it said the Department of Magical Games and Sports would probably have to be put on hold for the time being. Most of them that worked there supported You-Know-Who." With all the stories in the Prophet about the end of the war, trust Ron to read the one involving Quidditch.

"What are they doing with them?" Harry had avoided thinking about this. He warily picked up the card Ron had discarded, noticing the edges were looking a little crispy.

"I dunno. You think they'll lock them up until something can be decided? I bet the Ministry cells are packed. There hasn't been time for trials, and they can't just ship them all to Azkaban… there'd be too many. Besides, no one can tell yet who was an out-and-out supporter, and who was just trying to keep their jobs. After all, dad still worked there."

Harry remembered the awkward encounter with Mr Weasley while they were trying to get the Horcrux from Umbridge. "Umbridge is in a cell, right?"

"She'd better be." Ron agreed.

The card he picked up exploded, setting off his hand. Harry grinned and counted his points.

* * *

It was wonderful to have a day off. A day with no Horcrux hunt, no battle. A day here! Harry thought back to all the years yearning to be at the Burrow instead of locked in his room at the Dursleys' or trying to work through a chore list three pages too long. A day with no Death Eaters out for his blood, no Voldemort torturing people in his head, no searing pain in his scar. A day. Just a day, like a normal person.

Harry felt like his life had taken a day off. With Voldemort dead (and he still could not quite encompass that it was over), he did not have anything he _had_ to do. Nothing was hanging over him. It was a curious feeling, partway between exhilarating freedom and numb shock.

He and Ron played a game of one-on-one Quidditch. They flew broom races. They switched off being Chaser and Keeper as each tried to get the Quaffle past the other and through the old Quidditch hoops that, according to Ron, Mr Weasley and Bill had assembled (and in places transfigured) years ago from bits of Muggle flotsam from Mr Weasley's shed.

Harry pushed the old Cleansweep he had picked out from the Weasley broom shed as fast as he could, feeling the wind in his hair, then dived down toward the ground and pulled up at the last minute. He did not dare push it as far as he did his Firebolt, but he it felt so very good anyway. He wondered where the Firebolt was, if it had survived the long fall in the escape from the Dursleys', and was resting somewhere between Little Whinging and the Tonks' house. That thought brought the image of Hedwig, in her last moments. His stomach clenching in sorrow, Harry flew faster still, as if to escape the sorrow, to escape the past.

Later, exhausted, they lay on the grass and gazed into the blue sky. White clouds lazed across the sky. It was too early for insects. The ground was still damp from spring, but Ron charmed the damp away from a small area for them. Harry felt like he was gathering a childhood full of experience in this one day.

When Mrs Weasley called them in for lunch, they stumbled into the Burrow full of the day and the fresh air and the energy of flying.

"You really should try out for one of the teams, Harry. You could turn the Canon's streak around!"

Harry grinned. Ron could be so single-minded, but it was Ron. When they emerged through the boot room into the main room, Ron stopped, and Harry bumped into him. There, at the table, sat George. And then reality crashed down.

George sat in the same position as he had for breakfast. Harry wondered if he had moved at all since then. He stared at the table. Mrs Weasley had a look to her face, a kind of forced cheer. The table was laden with food. Harry imagined her cooking, and setting out food, stepping around George each time she went by, and George just sitting there, staring. No wonder her face looked like that.

Suddenly, Harry felt adrift. How could he have forgotten, even for a minute, those they had lost? Fred. Remus. Tonks. He did not know all the names. He had not checked. But he knew those three, added to his parents and Sirius and all the others Voldemort had taken from him and so many others, Wizard and Muggle, over the years.

They sat down to lunch, joined by Ginny and Percy. Somehow, George's silence took over the room. Harry did nothing to fight it. The sound of silverware and glasses and chewing became louder in Harry's ears, filling the space, as they each sat in their own grief. Mrs Weasley took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes, then blew into it. Ginny patted George on the back, George showed no sign that he felt it. Percy made an aborted movement toward his mother, but subsided, sitting back down. He shrunk into himself, as if trying to make as little a footprint in his family as possible, as if unsure of his welcome. Yet Mrs Weasley needed something.

"Umm, are Mr Weasley and Hermione staying at the Ministry for lunch, then?" It seemed to Harry that with the ease of Floo travel, they might come home for lunch. Especially with—everything. Harry's mind shied away from the thought. If he started thinking about Fred, about all of the deaths, Harry was afraid he would be in the same state as – as George.

Mrs Weasley roused herself, dabbed her eyes, and gave Harry a grateful look. "I expect they're eating at their desks. Arthur often does that when things at the Ministry gets busy."

The room fell to silence again. This time Ginny broke it, looking directly at Harry for the first time since he got back to the Burrow. Harry wondered at that, but did not want to think about why at the moment. "So Harry, what are you doing next?"

The question took Harry by surprise. He did not know why it should; it was the question he should have been asking himself all along. But in all the time leading to the final battle, he had not thought of his life beyond Voldemort's death. Even his plans for becoming an Auror were based on the idea that he would need ongoing training to succeed against the Dark Lord.

He did not know if all the Death Eaters had been captured, but the danger to him had dramatically diminished. And he was not sure he wanted to spend his life painting one target on himself after another. He had done what the prophecy demanded. Now he was free.

But free to do what?

"I don't know," Harry replied. "I don't think I am going to decide for a bit." Mrs Weasley looked like she wanted to say something, but Harry spoke first. "All my life, it's been about Voldemort. I need to find out who I am besides Voldemort's number one enemy." Harry remembered the posters at the Ministry. "I wonder if Mr Weasley could get me one of the Undesirable number 1 posters." Harry gave a wan grin. "Now that I don't have to hide from Voldemort's government, I rather like the idea of being first at _something_!"

Ginny snorted. "You mean besides Quidditch, and DADA, and—"

"Stop." Harry glared at her, but she grinned impudently back, and Harry thought that perhaps everything would be all right.

Nobody noticed the grin that flickered briefly on George's face.

They ate on in silence, but it did not feel so awkward. Harry spent the time thinking. What would he do? He had not come to any conclusions by the time lunch was over.

* * *

_May 3, 1998_

After lunch, Harry helped, over Mrs Weasley's objections, to clear the table.

"Ron," Mrs Weasley started, after lunch was cleared away, I know you'd like to spend the afternoon with Harry, but Charlie needs someone to help with the charms for—" She broke off.

"For Fred." Ron said, saying the name perhaps for the first time since the battle.

"It has to be a family member," Mrs Weasley said, perhaps to Harry, as if to excuse taking Ron away for the afternoon. "I don't want to leave you alone." Harry looked at Ginny. "I need Ginny to help with the owls, to let everyone know." Mrs Weasley said apologetically. She did not glance at Percy, perhaps knowing that the two had never quite gotten on, or at George, who would not be providing anyone company any time soon. George got up and went upstairs, not looking at anyone. A few minutes later, they heard a door close.

"It's fine. I need some time anyway— I'll just be in the garden." Harry got up, climbed over the wooden bench by the dining table, and went outside. He felt the need to be doing something.

He thought about de-gnoming the garden, but that was more fun with other people. He remembered when Ron had taught him how, with Mrs Weasley reading out of that stupid Lockhart book. Somehow, that first time at the Burrow stuck in his mind, the memory as vivid as when he first lived it. He remembered them shouting at each other, and having contests about how far they could throw the gnomes. Fred always won those contests. He turned away from that thought.

The garden had been ignored. Truthfully, it had never been a neat garden. But it gave Harry something to do. He crouched by a hedge to the north side of the burrow, and began to pull weeds. Even at the Dursleys', when that had been one of his many chores, he had enjoyed weeding, assuming Dudley was not around and it was not too hot or too cold. It something to do that he could do without thinking. He could think, or he could _not_ think. He pulled another weed.

After awhile, Percy came out, and began to pull weeds alongside of Harry.

Their progress was slow but as time passed, Harry could see a small weed-free section. Neither spoke for some time. Harry did not know why Percy had come out, but he did not want to disturb the pattern he had started, of reach, pull, pile, reach, pull, pile, by starting a conversation.

"I'm sorry." Percy's words were quiet.

Harry stopped weeding and turned to look at the only Weasley he had not liked. Percy's face was flushed from the sun, despite the charm to prevent burning. Percy kept weeding, not looking at Harry. "I was wrong about you." Percy continued. "You were fighting him all along, and I – I made it harder for you."

Harry couldn't think of anything to say to that. He was not sure he forgave Percy. On the other hand, he could not muster the energy to dislike him either. He turned back to weeding. "Okay."

They weeded in silence some more. By the time he left, it would be as neat as the Dursley's. He shivered at the thought. No, he would not do that to the Burrow.

"Why aren't you at the Ministry?" Harry asked.

"I resigned my old job, you may remember." Percy's tone was dry, and Harry remembered that Percy could, in fact, make jokes. "Although no one currently at the Ministry knows I quit, what with the old Minister in a cell, I'm not sure they'd welcome someone who was Thicknesse's assistant." He paused. "I'm not sure I like who I've been, and working at the Ministry… may not have been the best place for me. It may have made me a bit of a prat."

"Percy, I hate to be the one to tell you. You were a bit of a prat before you worked at the Ministry."

Percy was silent for a moment. "Perhaps."

"Who are you and what have you done with Percy Weasley?" Harry asked.

"That is the question, isn't it?" Percy commented, tufting his nose in the air and affecting a didactic tone.

If nothing else, his experience in Voldemort's Ministry had succeeded in transforming Percy into a human being. Harry grinned, and pulled a particularly long-rooted dandelion.

"Keep that. Mum can use it." Percy commented. Harry vaguely remembered a few potions with dandelion parts, and set it aside. Right as he was reaching back for the next weed, there was a sharp pain in his arm.

Harry jerked his arm back to see a small, ugly face glaring at him, its teeth buried in his forearm. It _hurt!_ Percy grabbed a rock and aimed it at the top of the gnome's head, hitting it hard. The creature released Harry's arm and went temporarily limp, and Percy, with a grin at Harry, grabbed it by its feet and swung it in a circle several times, before flinging it over the garden hedge. It flew in a long arc, coming to ground some distance out. The thump when the creature came down was satisfying.

"We have to do something about those gnomes. They're getting bolder. Come in, let's get that seen to." Percy gestured to Harry's arm, which had an incipient bruise developing.

Harry finally understood how Percy got to be a Prefect. It was not his slavish adherence to rules. Harry had never seen Percy being calmly competent before… he suspected his ego had always gotten in the way. Perhaps Dumbledore had seen this potential in the man beside him. Harry thought he might actually like this quiet, thoughtful, new Percy.

* * *

_AN: Thanks for reading! I adore reviews - they help me keep writing! Questions help me think about the story, critiques help me write better, and comments give me joy!_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his friends, his enemies, and the lovely world they live in all belong to JK Rowling. _


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